I rested with a light pink blooming cherry-tree branch on my chest. The wind flowed along the river banks, somewhere out of sight, beyond the buildings and the yard. My silk attire lay on the ground like the wings of a butterfly, and the brook flowed past me in the direction of the snow-topped mountains.
I wished you had picked me up like a flower from the garden, held my flourishing body for a while before I wilted away. You could have been handsome like a pine tree, your eyes always the same green. We could have lived entwined with each other like light and shade.
When I walked around these yards, the Moon followed me among the pillars and watched me through the windows. I put a little doll that looked like me into one of the miniature temples and placed a tiny garland on her hair. Every night, the doll sang to me of distant lands on the border between dreams and reality.
I saw you every day in the daylight, riding along the sides of the mountains and the linings of the clouds on a silver dragon. You held its fluttering whiskers and pressed your heels against its scaled sides, as it threw its head wildly and tried to bite your hands. You were protected by the signs written onto your forehead that you had found behind seven dark lakes.
People cut the wings of birds, put shackles on their feet and look at them as terrified as if they were looking at themselves. They enchant dragons and make them swim around the garden pond, underneath the leaves of the waterlilies. They bind saplings while they are still growing, just like they tie the feet of their children, so that the entire creation and the humankind could share in the same pain.
I have drunk the moonlight and the blood of the animals and seen all the bones that had to be broken for my sake. The beast holds my wrists in its claws. I am in a banquet where creatures tread in a line over the hazy border and I cannot close my eyes.
If you had been next to me, I would have embroidered our existence on your skin with a golden needle. The pain would have forced you to recognize the unnatural things we do for each other. While I was tearing off the petals of the flowers in search for love and reading the end of the world from the innards of a bird, I perhaps only searched for a reason to kill.
I wove between letters all that I did not dare to say aloud. I painted the porcelain doll eyes that see dreams that bind me to this world. I made the creatures I had created fight for their lives.
The days spin silk on the tree branches. In the fragile palace upon hack-berry branches caterpillars are endowed with wings, yet life like that of a leaf flying in the wind is filled with sadness. The butterfly becomes translucent in the light of the Sun.
I have wrapped spells around the columns of this house, so that the spirits would not breathe cold wind underneath my door. The specters gliding past pull the blanket from me at nights, and the wolves call to me from the hills.
Once, you opened your eyes in the middle of the night, and they shone like the eyes of a feline. When you opened them again at dawn, they were again grey and solid as the bedrock. I listened to how the walls of the house creak at nights, and your sleep-talking.
Some nights, I removed my clothes layer by layer and went swimming in the dark-watered garden pond. When I rose from beneath the waterlily leaves back onto the surface, the fireflies descended among the white petals of the waterlilies, and my tears mixed with the dripping water.
Should I have sent you a message on the back of a dragonfly, whispered among the rustling reeds? It is already too late to go after you. The story is finished, the pages of the book have been bound. My soul has sunken deep within, and there is just a fading glint of memories in my eyes.